


The Adventure of the Trojan Club

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, M/M, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 12:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2348987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Moriarty move to London in the early 1880s and Moriarty introduces Holmes to a career that might interest him: assisting men who are, by no fault of their own, beyond the help of the law.</p><p>This story contains no violence (unlike others in the series). And no actual sex either! (shock horror)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Trojan Club

Holmes was somewhat disappointed by London. Perhaps we both were. After our countless eager discussions on escaping sleepy Oxford, the plans we had made, our desire to really make an impact – everything seemed to fall a little flat. At first there was the problem of money. While I received a handsome allowance from my father, Holmes himself had no income nor, it seemed, away from parts and people we knew, any means of acquiring one. It galled him that I should be paying for us both. But it galled him still more that, although my income was generous for one man, to stretch to two it required us to be forced away from the centre of the city (for some time Holmes had, I believe, had his heart set on rooms in Baker Street) into the drearily unfashionable South London suburbs. What’s more, with little knowledge of the area in which we found ourselves, Holmes had no access to laboratories such as he had been used to in Oxford and no real practical problems to test his mind; he was thus left in a kind of stagnation.

I did my best to tug him from this lethargy which seemed, at times, to swallow him whole, but it appears there is only so much the pleasures of the flesh can do for a man when his spirits are at their lowest, and Holmes turned to his chemicals for different purposes, mixing himself a cocaine solution that rose steadily from 3 to 5 to 7 per cent. It was not the first time he had turned to the drug to combat his boredom, but it was certainly the most prolonged period of usage that I had ever witnessed in him, and I quickly became sick of watching the injections – sick also of the infuriating dampening effect the drug had on his libido. I took to walking the city for hours on end, learning the streets, the layout of this new city in which I found myself; learning also the locations of the clubs, the best male brothels – for if a man cannot find relief in the arms of his lover, he must seek alternative solace.

Holmes, however, never appeared to even notice my extended periods of absence, still less remark upon them. It was a dispiriting period of existence, and a less determined man would no doubt have given up all attempts to rouse his lover from his lassitude and simply have begun anew. But I could no longer imagine life without the man who had been my constant companion for well over two years in Oxford, and I racked my brains for some method of returning to Holmes the spirit and verve which had attracted me to him in the first place.

In the event, it was mere chance which led me to provide Holmes with a career that would interest him. I was seated in a corner of a club of which I had recently become a member, in the most part due to its being conveniently situated a few doors down from what was locally known as “The Trojan Club”, my most favoured brothel – and, interestingly enough, frequented by more or less the same clientele. I knew a number of the other members in passing, although I never cared to gain any strong acquaintance with any, and so it must have been the terrible strain he was under that led Sidney Dawson to confide in me in the absence of his usual confidantes.

I was idly perusing the newspapers when Dawson stopped before me, pale and haunted, running a hand frantically through bohemian-long hair before finally seating himself opposite. He was perhaps near to thirty and, like most of the young men who inhabited the clubs of the area (legitimate and otherwise), lived solely on an allowance from his father. Much more than that I did not know, until Dawson leaned forward, clasping at my sleeve with long bony fingers so that I drew away, almost disgusted at his extreme display of emotion.

“I can trust you, can’t I Moriarty?” He said, voice quavering with anxiety, although he did not wait for an answer to his question. “Yes, I know I can – I’ve seen you often enough in the Trojan. You’re a discrete man.” I nodded almost imperceptibly, finding myself somewhat intrigued by Dawson’s problem now that he had stopped pawing at me with clammy hands.

“I’ve been quite frantic these past 24 hours!” Dawson went on, “I didn’t know who to turn to. I couldn’t ask the assistance of the police, or even my father… for what would happen to both myself and Bertie if they were to discover that my live-in servant was in fact my lover?” His eyes clouded with tears and he gulped miserably. “But I know that foul play is involved here! Bertie never left me even for an hour without telling me where he was going – and I was the same with him.” His voice broke at the tragedy of his own story. “I _loved_ him! Ever since the moment I first laid eyes on him in the Trojan! He was but seventeen then, a filthy street boy with language as coarse as his clothing… but I knew that there was more to him, and these past two years he has done nothing put prove me right.” Dawson paused, but before the tears that were gathering could spill from his eyes, I stepped in.

“I’m sure you don’t mind me saying that this can hardly be an isolated case.” I said dryly, “A young prostitute, taking all he can from a rich older lover before disappearing back to the streets from whence he came…” Dawson looked utterly anguished.

“Are you not listening to a word I say?!” He demanded, and I feared he would tear his hair from the very roots so fiercely did he tug at it. “Bertie is not like that! And even if you cannot believe that – tell me this. Why would he leave without his coat – without even his _shoes_!”

“I admit that does seem rather strange.” I agreed. Dawson nodded helplessly.

“I am at my wit’s end. If only I had it in my mind to decipher this riddle.” He said miserably. And it was at that moment that a crystal clear thought struck me, so strongly that I leapt excitedly to my feet.

“Come with me.” I told Dawson eagerly, “For I know a man who does.”

*

On first meeting Holmes, and on numerous occasions in the years that followed, I had been impressed by his peculiar powers of observation and deduction, and thus it was that he immediately sprang to mind in this strange and unusual situation. I doubt, however, that he inspired the same confidence in Dawson, for we entered the rooms I shared with Holmes to find him lying, as was his usual want in the late afternoon, across the couch, eyes half-closed. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to reveal those tell-tale pinpricks which the needle had left on his arm, the implement which had performed these many deeds lying casually discarded on the table in front of him.

“Ah Moriarty,” He drawled, sitting up and slowly rolling down his sleeves with a habitual lack of embarrassment, “A little older than the guests you usually bring home, surely?” Dawson flushed slightly, but since he was hardly in a position to comment on our personal life, I ignored both this and Holmes’s inappropriate remark.

“Mr Dawson, this is Sherlock Holmes, an acquaintance of mine. Holmes, this is Sidney Dawson, a member of my club.” I said. Holmes stretched out a hand to take Dawson’s with infinite slowness, and the sheer delightful arrogance of his manner was somewhat arousing, so that I had to swallow hard before continuing.

“Dawson has no small problem to lay before us, Holmes. I have heard a little of it myself, and rather thought that you were the best man to unravel the mystery, for I know of no one who can rival your powers of deduction.” Holmes smiled superciliously, preening under this flattery as I had known he would.

"You are too kind, my dear Moriarty.” He smirked, tilting his head towards Dawson. “Sidney Dawson,” He said languidly, “A man living on an allowance from his father which doesn’t quite cover his expensive tastes. A hopeless romantic at heart, an amateur poet…” He paused, raising his eyebrows, “And yet a lover of all the unnatural pleasures to be found in the young men of the Trojan Club.” Dawson’s mouth fell open, his faith in Holmes magnifying as quickly as his surprise. He sat down opposite Holmes, leaning forward eagerly, hands placed on his bony knee-caps.

“How do you know all these things?” He asked in amazement. Holmes shrugged modestly.

“Any man could deduce such information if he looked hard enough.” He explained charitably, “Indeed, when I reveal my methods my conclusions will sound far less remarkable. Let me start with your income – your very dress and bearing make it obvious that you are not a working man, and although you must be near to thirty there is a certain carelessness about your manner which suggests you have no need to look after yourself, and thus rely on a father’s money. Although your clothes are new and in the height of fashion there is a small hole in the sole of your right shoe, which suggests that you struggle a little in maintaining your expensive lifestyle. The hair and the ruff of your shirt indicates a romantic nature, and thus the ink on your fingers – far more sparse than it would be on the hands of someone who writes for a living, such as a clerk – can only mean an interest in poetry. As to the latter fact…” He turned and looked at me with a grin, “Where else would my dear Moriarty have made your acquaintance save in that brothel where he spends most of his afternoons, or the club he visits for a few drinks when his desires are sated?” At this my own mouth fell open in astonishment.

“You have been following me!” I cried, in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. Holmes steepled his fingertips together, a faint smile crossing his face.

“Naturally,” He said calmly, “Did you not think I would wonder where you disappeared to day after day?”

“I rather thought you didn’t care!” I said hotly, “You might have simply _asked_ me! Why, if you were a little less cold towards me I might not go there at all!” Holmes laughed, indicating Dawson’s reddening face and stiff, awkward pose.

“James, you are embarrassing our guest with these domestics. Perhaps I should hear his problem instead of yours?” Sulkily, for I knew that Holmes was right and that I was making a scene, I sat down and Holmes turned his attention back to the man opposite.

“Pray begin your tale.” He said.

*

When he had heard Sidney Dawson’s story, Holmes’ first demand was to visit his residence, in order to examine the place from whence Bertie had so mysteriously disappeared. And so we set out in a cab for Piccadilly. Holmes gazed out of the window as we rattled through London.

“Hmm,” He said thoughtfully, “It would be so much more convenient for one’s visitors to take up rooms in Central London.” I rolled my eyes, wondering why the old residence argument had come up again, but still too angry with Holmes to say anything. Thankfully we soon drew up outside a smart but unprepossessing town house, and Dawson showed us inside. The housekeeper, a small bustling women with a round face and bright button eyes descended on us immediately.

“Any news on Mister Bertie, sir?” She asked, sounding almost as anguished as Dawson had done himself when speaking on the subject. Dawson smiled kindly at her.

“None as yet, Mrs Pettigrew,” He informed her, “But I hope that these gentlemen may be able to help.” I smiled kindly at the woman but Holmes, in the cold manner he usually adopted in company, gazed disinterestedly ahead as he directed his questions at her.

“Did you see or hear anything on the night that young Bertie disappeared, Mrs Pettigrew?” He asked.

“Nothing, sir!” The housekeeper claimed, “It wasn’t late. I was still downstairs helping the maid to clear the table after dinner when he must have gone, for it wasn’t long afterwards that Mr Dawson came to ask if I had seen him.” Holmes thought for a moment.

“Had you noticed anything unusual in Bertie’s manner lately?” He asked. Mrs Pettigrew paused, clearly not wanting to upset her master.

“Now that you mention it, sir, he had seemed rather agitated these past few weeks.” She said apologetically, “And less than a week ago he started asking me all these questions – if I would look after the master if something were to happen to him and so forth.” Dawson started violently at this.

"I hope you don’t think from this that Bertie left me of his own accord?” He said agitatedly, “He would never-“ But Holmes interrupted him.

“I am rather inclined to believer you, Mr Dawson if, as you say, he left with neither jacket nor shoes. But I do not like to draw my conclusions so early in an investigation. If I may examine Bertie’s room…?” And he started for the stairs.

*

Bertie’s bedroom was small and neat, and it was obvious from first glance that it was used for little more than storage and a vague effort at keeping up appearances. However, Dawson assured us that it was quite usual for Bertie to spend a little time there alone after dinner, and this should not be taken as a sign that any pre-arranged plan of his had been put into practice. Holmes made straight for the window for, as he said, since no one had heard or seen Bertie leave the house, it stood to reason that he had vacated the property through the window of the room in which he had been. Holmes examined both glass and frame carefully before turning to myself and Dawson with a triumphant grin.

“It is as I thought – there are no footmarks on the sill, although the flowerbeds below are still quite damp with that torrential rain yesterday afternoon, therefore it seems likely that no one has entered the room this way. There is, however-“ He reached out a hand to tug a strand of blue material from the catch, “The suggestion that someone has climbed _out_. Moreover, these scratches on the glass imply that small stones or gravel have been flung at the window, and quite recently. It must have been this that alerted Bertie to the presence of someone below, and he then climbed down to meet them. Although this accounts for his lack of footwear, there is no reason why he could not have thrown his shoes down before him, which suggests there was no organised arrangement.” He paused for a moment, then cheerfully began to unlace his boots. “I think I shall follow him.”

“Holmes, are you sure-?” I began, but he interrupted me with a wave of his hand.

“Yes, yes, I shall be quite all right – and I wouldn’t want to risk missing some vital clue. You, however, may use more conventional methods of descent if you wish, and meet me below the window.” And, with that, he passed me his shoes and folded his lanky frame through the window.

Dawson and I could do nothing more than hurry down the stairs and outside, striding round the building, where we found Holmes standing below the window, holding something up and looking positively ecstatic.

“It is lucky that I did not take the stairs!” He crowed, “See what I would have missed hidden behind the drainpipe if I had?”

When he saw what Holmes was holding, Dawson turned quite pale.

“Bertie’s ring!” He gasped, “I gave him that – he would never remove it! Never!” Holmes, seeming utterly unaware of Dawson’s distress, smiled cheerfully.

“I rather thought it was something of the kind,” He said, “And it only confirms my hypothesis. I have had a few moments while waiting for you to make a brief examination of the area, and I rather think I can solve this little mystery.” He pressed the ring into Dawson’s hand and reached for his shoes. “Mr Dawson, you may as well keep this. I shall leave you for a few hours to make some enquiries, and when I return I hope you will be able to restore the token to its rightful owner. James, if you would care to keep Mr Dawson company?”

*

I was, understandably I feel, annoyed at having been thus cut out of these interesting investigations, and was hence, I fear, rather poor company for Sidney Dawson. We fidgeted the hours away, all the while waiting anxiously for Holmes’ return. It was Mrs Pettigrew’s shriek that warned us that he had, and we both leapt to our feet, reaching the hall mere seconds later.

At first all I could see of the youth Holmes had brought with him was a thin young man, with a head of ruffled blond hair, buried in Mrs Pettigrew’s bosom, but he must have heard us approach, for he pulled himself away from the over-excited woman, his face breaking into an enormous smile when he saw Dawson in front of me. I could well see what attracted Dawson to him, for as the young man smiled all his imperfections – that childish snub nose, the scar on his cheek, the tears in clothes that had obviously been good only the day before – simply melted away, so that he looked positively angelic. And then, without my having noticed either of them move, the pair were enfolded in each other’s arms, Dawson kissing the boy’s face and hair without even a thought for propriety, as if hardly able to believe that he existed. Holmes rolled his eyes at me over the heads of the pair, clearly impatient for them to part so that he could reveal the genius of his methods.

It was not long, however, before he got his chance, over a pot of Mrs Pettigrew’s tea in the parlour, Dawson and Bertie curled up together on the couch as if they could not bear to be parted for another second.

“How on earth did you manage it, Mr Holmes?” Dawson asked, eyes sparkling happily. Holmes feigned a certain nonchalance.

“It was an easy matter, really,” He said lazily, “After all, we knew that Bertie had been taken unawares and presumably unwilling, but that he must have known his kidnapper – why else would he climb down from his window unbidden – for any words loud enough to be exchanged over that distance would have been heard by yourself just two rooms away. Bertie’s hurry suggested this to be a matter of extreme importance and the hidden ring indicated the nature of this importance. There were two reasons why Bertie could have concealed it thus – to protect a cherished possession (thus believing that the stranger below would remove anything of monetary value from him) – and also to protect _you_ , Mr Dawson.”

Dawson raised his eyebrows, eyes widening in surprise as Holmes continued.

“Yes, it was obvious to me that you were the real object of interest for the stranger outside the window – you and your money. Why else would Bertie fear losing the ring to someone he knew? Because jewellery, and hence wealth, was what this man was after – a man whose only link to you was through Bertie. A man from the Trojan Club.” Holmes paused dramatically, leaving just long enough for another gasp from Dawson.

“I knew that all I had to do, then, was go to the club,” Holmes continued, “And wait until I spotted its owner: a heavy-framed but slightly overweight man with dull brown hair and a rather inflated sense of both self-importance and wealth, which belied his working class roots - showing itself in a fondness for tweed and Havana cigars. All that was required, then, was patience, before this fellow would be forced to confess all and lead me to Bertie. You are a lucky man, Mr Dawson. Not only have your belongings been saved from robbery, but you have in your keep the heart of a brave young man who would rather risk the wrath of a desperate pimp and his gang than carry out the job of theft for which he was inveigled into your household in the first place. And, in order to save your honour, even though he knew that the time was coming when he could keep away from these men no longer, he was forced to keep this secret from you.”

Dawson frowned, clearly not sure what to make of this information, as the boy stared at his furrowed face, too terrified of his lover’s reaction to even apologise. And then Dawson merely tilted Bertie’s face towards his, smiling faintly.

“I love you.” He said simply, and kissed the boy gently on the lips.

*

“There’s one more thing I don’t understand,” I said to Holmes as we returned, shortly afterwards, to our rooms. Holmes fixed me with a quizzical look so that I continued immediately, “How did you persuade such disreputable people to give up the boy who knew their secrets and had, moreover, betrayed them?” Holmes smiled, his face a picture of supercilious amusement.

“The law is a strange and mysterious thing,” He said, “Which cruelly punishes acts which to some men seem perfectly natural. But it was this threat of dishonour and disgrace that the Trojan Club counted on to ensure that its victims, such as our Mr Dawson here, kept quiet. I have read of numerous similar cases – perhaps you remember that of Mr Neville Leserge?”

I shook my head, but Holmes didn’t seem particularly bothered whether I knew or not.

“There was, however, no threat that they could hold over me, for I had never visited the premises.” He went on, smirking slightly, “Whyever do you think that I could not allow _you_ to accompany me in my investigations? Moreover, these men had no idea what position I held within the law. As far as they knew I might be a danger to the future of the club itself, and so it was that I held a strong hand with which to bargain with them. I sincerely hope that we may have saved many other poor men from their vile intentions.” Holmes paused as we let ourselves back into our rooms, before adding thoughtfully, “You know, I think I may make a habit of this detective work. It agrees with me considerably.”

“You mean the reward that Dawson gave you agrees with you!” I teased him, but he took this gracefully.

“That certainly helps matters.” He agreed, “But a man should have a hobby besides the use of cocaine. And the pleasures of the flesh, of course.” He grinned somewhat salaciously at me.

“I rather thought you had lost interest in the latter.” I said dryly, and Holmes put a hand on my shoulder.

“Ah, my dear Moriarty, I have been neglecting you, haven’t I?” He said, and then grinned again. “But I am sure I can spare some time before looking for another case. Would a couple of days suffice?” And he leant forward to kiss me.


End file.
